


The Night is my Bride

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Based On A 12th-Century Poem, Cheating, Emotional Infidelity, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity, Jealousy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Gérard Lacroix, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: Strange are the ways of the wolfhearted...





	1. Chapter 1

The motions were entirely automatic now. Of course, when one had been doing the same thing three nights a week for as long as one could recall, it was hardly a surprising thing that it became automatic. Marriage, however, had changed the ritual somewhat.

"Leaving again?" Gérard asked from behind her. Amélie jumped and whirled around to face him, cursing mentally; she'd tried to be quiet. Gérard simply looked at her, leaning against the kitchen doorway, face unreadable. Amélie slowly cocked her head, fingers closing around her keys left on the entryway table.

"Yes, of course," she replied in measured tones, trying to gauge his intent. Amélie was unaccustomed to having her comings and goings questioned. "It  _ is _ Tuesday. You know that."

"I do know that," Gérard sighed at length, reaching up to thumb at his moustache. He pushed himself off the doorway and strode closer. Amélie used all her strength not to growl and back up—she  _ hated _ being cornered. Nonetheless he either didn't notice or didn't pay any mind to her discomfort, for Gérard pulled her into a hug, half-crushing her against his chest. The gesture had at one point made her feel safe—and perhaps it still did, if not for the  _ timing _ —but now all Amélie could feel was an impatient sort of irritation. She subtly checked her watch behind his back. 11:04 PM. She needed to have left four minutes ago.

"Must you go again,  _ chérie? _ " he murmured against the crown of her head. "Surely the studio could stand to miss you for a single week."

It took Amélie a moment to process the comment before she recalled the excuse she'd fed him early on in their relationship. Being that she owned her own ballet studio, she was naturally quite  _ particular _ about its upkeep, and informed him that she spent from Tuesday evening to Thursday evening every week  _ personally _ maintaining it to her own standards and specifications. The weather did not matter; the holidays did not matter; it was simply something she  _ had to do _ . It wasn't an issue when they were dating—he'd seemed far too infatuated with her to care—but since their marriage, he'd grown progressively more...  _ difficult. _

Amélie supposed it was more difficult to excuse such regular lengthy absences when it resulted in one's marriage bed being empty.

"The studio likely could," Amélie teased, schooling her expression into a little smirk. She pressed a quick kiss to his mouth and tapped him once on the lips. "I, however, cannot allow that. I must go." She kissed his cheek swiftly and smoothly twirled out of his embrace. "I will be home—"

"—Thursday," he sighed, folding his arms over his chest. "I know."

"So I see," Amélie chuckled. No sooner had her hand touched the doorknob than Gérard clasped her other hand in both of his.

"Amélie," he said, half-pleading.

She turned to face him, nearly exasperated. "Gérard."

His deep green eyes met hers. He studied her brilliant golden gaze for a long minute, searching for something, finding nothing. Gérard chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, seemingly working up the nerve to say it. His jaw worked silently and then he hesitantly stumbled out, "You're... definitely going just to the studio? Nowhere before or... during?"

Amélie's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Where else would I be going?"

He hesitated and released her hand, shaking his head. "...Nowhere. Nothing. Just... please be careful."

She relaxed at that. Just his usual protective nature, then. Amélie offered him a gentle smile. "I always am, no?"

He smiled weakly. "I love you, Amélie."

The declaration made her hard gaze soften. "I love you too." And she did. She absolutely did. He drove her crazy, but he was still hers, dammit.

She gave him one more kiss before slipping out the door and hastily making her way down the halls of Overwatch headquarters, in the direction of the company car she used weekly. She was now seven minutes late. She'd have to speed part of the way, she supposed.

The drive to her studio was made in haste, and soon enough she was pulling into the dimly-lit lot behind the studio. She threw the car into park, grabbed her gym bag from the passenger seat, and bolted through the back door. Only when the heavy iron door slammed shut did Amélie finally relax, leaning back against the cool metal. A breath. Two. She checked her watch. 11:39 PM. Good. Still on time.

Amélie took a deep, calming breath and stood up straight. She locked the door—the knob lock, the deadbolt, the chain padlock—and reached up to undo her ponytail as she kicked off her shoes and strode deeper into the studio.

It was always somewhat ethereal at night, with the glossy hardwood floor, the full-length mirrors along one wall, the wide windows high on the opposite wall allowing sun- and moonlight to flow freely inside. And on a full moon, like tonight, the moonlight streaming into the studio bathed the polished surfaces in silver, giving the entire building a dreamlike quality. If Amélie strained her ears just slightly, she could hear the sound of distant crickets through the singular open window in the far left corner. It was almost tranquil.

But there was still work to be done. Mechanical motions stretching back as far as she could recall. Autopilot, perhaps, was the better term for it.

She crossed her wrists at her hips and tugged her turtleneck easily off, folded it, and placed it on the floor nearby. The comfortable slacks went next, too folded neatly, placed atop the shirt. Socks; underwear; athletic bra. She stretched silently, gathered up her clothes, and placed them in the dark corner nearby. Her bag was placed on top of it.

Amélie moved to walk back to the center of room, still on autopilot—and paused.

...Yes, that was right. That was another part of her routine that marriage had changed. 

Amélie carefully tugged both her engagement and wedding rings from her finger, placing them carefully in the side pocket of her bag. No, it certainly wouldn't do to lose those.

She smoothed her hair back behind her shoulders again, tucked a few loose strands behind her ears. It was nearly time, she felt sure. She knelt on the cold wooden floor and made an effort to slow and steady her breathing. Despite how often she'd made this little tryst, it never failed to set her pulse quickening. A soft breeze blew in from the open window. She could detect the familiar scent pine on the air; she nearly shuddered in pleasure at the familiarity of Switzerland's wilderness. Her hands flexed absently on her knees, porcelain skin silvered by the moonlight that caressed her form like a lover.

Amélie half-wished she'd kept her watch close by. She wasn't sure by now what time it was, and the anticipation never became any easier to bear.

She was just starting to develop the slightest of aches in her knees when the bolt hit her, raking straight down her spine, sparking each of her senses alight in an instant, and Amélie could only gasp, pupils dilating to nearly envelop her gold irises before constricting down to pinpricks as her senses overwhelmed her.

She'd only just dropped to all fours when she lunged, catching the open windowsill effortlessly, dark form vanishing effortlessly into the frigid night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [doesnt finish anything in 3 months] What If I Start A New Thing,


	2. Chapter 2

There was, Amélie knew, a wolf pack far east of the Overwatch headquarters, deep in the Swiss mountains. She also knew that there was a small handful of lone and paired wolves that roamed the rest of the country. Nothing like back home in France, where the population was just over 300. In Annecy, she could scarcely go for a run without running into one of the wolves or, on occasion, more annoyingly, one of the other local garou. Wolves were easy to reason with. They were animals. Garou were too smart for their own good.

But in Zurich, she could run for miles without even catching the scent of another territorial creature to concern herself with. All she cared to focus on was the muted crunch of the snow under the pads of her paws—the brisk breeze combing through the thick ruff of fur down her back—the sharp scent of winter in her nose—the visible pants of breath from her muzzle—

It was easy, in this body, to forget her more human side. The relationships. The acts. The expectations. It all melted away, as smooth as the dark fur swept over her skin in transformation, as smooth as the curve of her back as she ran. This body was not built for such things as humanity. It was not built for deep and lasting relationships. It was not built for societies and performances and expectations.

This body was built to run. This body was built to hunt. This body was built to kill.

And she would sate those cravings.

...It was far too easy to forget one's humanity while spending time in the beast's form. Amélie had learned that lesson long ago. Nearly every garou eventually did. They'd take on the form, and run off, and... they'd never come back. Content to live out their days in the ever-shrinking wilderness. Content to remain a beast.

Amélie had felt the call, herself, at times. It was why she restricted herself to only three days at a time. It was far, far easier to remain like this. The freedom could be intoxicating. Overwhelming. It was so tempting. No one knew the truth about her. No one would ever be able to find her. She could simply vanish.

But... she had other responsibilities she still cared for, she faintly recalled. And as Amélie loped back towards the city, they filtered through the shattered beast lens of her mind. She remembered, just faintly. Gérard, her husband, the love of her life. The ballet studio, her second love, her passion. ...Angela. She didn't even have the words to describe their closeness when she was altogether human, let alone when she was still half-feral.

Nonetheless, the instinctive autopilot led her back to a bafflingly familiar building—leaping preternaturally high, scrabbling through an open window—and she landed on the floor. Amélie nearly slipped. Growled at the unusual, slippery texture under her paws.

She stalked forward, sniffing curiously around the room. It was... familiar. Very familiar. It smelled like her. It smelled a  _ lot _ like her.

Hers?

Her... building. No. Studio?  _ This  _ was a studio. And it was hers. Yes, that sounded right.

Amélie shook herself off, as if to shake the fragments of memory in her skull back into place. She crept deeper into the room, belly low to the floor. She sniffed again. The scent of herself was strongest in the corner nearby. Had she been here recently? All she could recall with any clarity was the chase—the hunt. Amélie crept closer.

It was a cache. No. A pile. Of something. Something soft. She nosed into it, pawing aside the rougher, bulkier item on top. Yes, very soft. The scent of herself was all over them. Amélie sneezed and pawed at the pile, tugging something loose. These were... cloths. No. Clothes? Clothes. Those were the things humans wore. But they smelled like her. They were hers?

...Yes, that was right. They were hers. Because they were for humans. But she'd worn them. Wolves didn't wear clothes. Humans did.

She was human.

The transformation back was never quite as satisfying as the initial one, but nonetheless Amélie sighed in relief and stretched mightily, the taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She'd have to brush her teeth thoroughly to get that taste out. In the meantime she simply laid back on the glossy floor, grimacing at the new positioning of her spine.  _ Ow. _ She lay there for a long moment, counting her breaths, ensuring that she recalled how to move each part of her body, recalling what it was to be  _ human. _ At length she reached for her bag, grabbing her personal holophone from its depths. Nothing from her husband. That was expected. Angela had sent her a message at some point, too. That was less expected. She smiled to see the notification.

It was nothing major. Simply an offer to get lunch on Friday after Amélie finished "personally scrubbing the studio floors with a toothbrush," as Angela teasingly phrased it. A soft chuckle bubbled up from Amélie's lips at the comment. It was a running joke with her—Angela, like so many others, couldn't fathom what sort of maintenance Amélie might need to upkeep for three days a week in her studio, and so began coming up with increasingly ridiculous tasks Amélie might be up to.

Amélie went to reply in the affirmative, but paused with her thumb hovering over the send button. It was well past midnight. People tended to wonder what—well. Another soft laugh slipped from Amélie's lips, then.  _ Most _ people would wonder what she was doing up at that hour. Angela would still be awake by now and wouldn't think to question it. She hit send and put the holo away.

She dressed quickly in the spare clothes from her bag, packed away her old set, and left for their apartment on the Overwatch base.

Gérard was fast asleep when she arrived, as expected. Amélie quietly put her clothes into the appropriate hampers and strode to bed. The sight gave her pause: Gérard was sleeping with his back to her side of the bed. That was unusual. He tended to sleep on his other side, so she could wake to the feeling of him curled into her back. Oh, well. The excess of body contact could be more stifling than she liked anyway. She climbed in and closed her eyes.

The exhaustion of the hunt and the transformation, however, meant that she felt much as though she'd only  _ just _ closed them before it was 6:00 and she was being woken with her usual cup of coffee and was Gérard  _ really  _ trying to speak coherently to her before she'd drunk it—

" _ Amélie, _ " he repeated, exasperated, and the anger that edged his words caught her sleep-addled attention.

" _ What? _ " she huffed, voice rough with sleep and disuse as she accepted the mug from him.

"Your rings."

She took a sip from her cup to help wake herself up. "What? What about—" She froze. Ah. The rings were a newer addition to her weekly ritual. She hadn't remembered to put them back on.  _ Merde. _

"Well? Where are they?"

Amélie pursed her lips as if irate and stood. "I was working with rather caustic cleaning solutions last night. I did not want them to be damaged, because despite what you appear to be implying, they are  _ quite _ important to me. I simply forgot to put them back on afterwards." She crossed the room to her discarded bag and retrieved the two rings, sliding them easily back onto her finger. Amélie held up her hand to show him, wiggling her fingers sarcastically. "Happy?"

Gérard bristled. "That's the excuse you've got?"

" _ Excuse me? _ "

He held up her holophone to her face. "You've been gone for three days and the first thing you do is make plans to see Angela?"

Golden eyes narrowed. "Yes, because she is a  _ friend _ and  _ having lunch _ with  _ friends _ is a common thing that  _ friends do. _ "

"Oh? Then where has Doctor Ziegler been the past few days while you were also gone, Amélie?" he challenged, eyes blazing. "For that matter, where were  _ you? _ "

Amélie stiffened sharply, squaring her shoulders. "Angela, to my knowledge, has been at a medical conference since Monday, and I  _ told _ you I—"

"I  _ went _ to the studio," he interrupted. Her dark brows shot up.  _ He's lying. _ She would have noticed the scent of him when she returned.  _ Why is he lying? _ "You never answered."

"When did you come by?" It took every ounce of effort not to sound skeptical.

He didn't expect a question in turn. He was silent for a long moment, his jaw working soundlessly, his gaze blanking. "It—that's not important."

"I left for a few hours on Wednesday to purchase some extra supplies," she lied easily, cocking her head, dark hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain. "Did you come by that day?"

"...Yes, I think so," he muttered, scratching at his jaw. He didn't quite meet her gaze.  _ He has to know I know he's lying. _ She still couldn't for the life of her think of a reason why he would, though.

She studied his gaze sharply. "About what time?"  _ Six-thirty. _ She didn't know why she bothered to ask. For the past two months he'd been getting home at right about that time, nearly clockwork. If he  _ had _ tried to visit, it would've been about then.

"Probably right around six-thirty."  _ As expected. _

Nonetheless, Amélie gave him a wry smile, picking her mug up from the nightstand. It'd grown nearly cool in the time the argument had taken place. She took a sip anyway, just to have something to do. "That would be why, then," she said, a teasing lilt to her voice. "I'd left about half an hour prior. You know, I  _ do _ have a holophone. You could try calling ahead of time,  _ mon loup. _ " She tapped him once on the nose, and in an instant the tension was broken.

"I—I know," he muttered, having the decency to look abashed. "I just—I'm sorry. Work's been... stressful, and I just... you know I love you, right?"

Amélie smiled up at him. "I do know  _ that. _ " Though she didn't know what he was lying about. Nor what had gotten him so riled up as to throw those kinds of accusations in her face.

He still didn't quite meet her gaze. "I'm sorry."

"I know." She cupped his cheek, turning him towards her to press a quick kiss to his lips. "You know I love you too, hm?"

A guilty blush crept up his neck. "Y-yes, I—yes. I don't know what came over me. Sorry."

"I know." She granted him another kiss—softer, longer—and gave him a teasing pat on the cheek when she pulled away. "You,  _ monsieur, _ are going to be late, you know." He balked, eyes widening, and bolted to finish getting ready. Amélie simply sat on the edge of the bed with her mug, chuckling at his panic. He nearly knocked the coffee out of her hands entirely in his haste to kiss her goodbye and scramble out the door.

When the door closed and locked behind him, Amélie's soft, fond smile faded into a concerned little frown, brow furrowing just slightly.  _ That was... unusual. Very unusual. He thought Angela and I were—? Do we give that impression? ...He did claim stress, but... _

She picked up her holophone, unlocked it, and with scarcely a pause set her message notifications from Angela to "do not display."


	3. Chapter 3

When one lived as a predator among humans for her entire life, it became increasingly rare to find a human that genuinely surprised and intrigued her. Angela had been the first to do so since... well, since Amélie had first encountered Gérard, back in Paris some years prior. Back then, she'd been drawn to his wit and charm.

Amélie was no fool. Any human with even the scarcest awareness of his own primal senses could tell a situation in which he was not the apex predator. It made them uneasy to be around her. Wary. Fearful, in some cases. And once they realized that she was,  _ for some reason, _ the cause, they strove to avoid her.

Gérard had found the rush exhilarating. Found himself inexplicably drawn to this woman with golden eyes and ink-black hair, with teeth and senses far too sharp. And Amélie had been likewise captivated by that charismatic bravado of his. He'd actually managed to win her over with that wit— _ oh, _ how he'd made her laugh—and she had stolen his affections in return.

The thrill of being treated so  _ kindly, _ so  _ humanly, _ combined with the competitive rush of their frequent and ever-sharp repartée, were, she thought, the final nails in the coffin, so to speak. Amélie was utterly smitten. She admitted that easily. She still  _ was, _ truly. She was. She loved the man more than anything. He made her feel human.

But Angela made her feel  _ alive. _

Much like Gérard, Angela met her hidden nature head-on, refusing to back down or be intimidated by her. Amélie hadn't  _ ever _ met someone who didn't express at least  _ some _ unease on first meeting her. That alone would've piqued her interest. But as she came to know the good doctor further—as Angela was frequently the only Overwatch agent she could reliably find on any given visit—Angela unconsciously drew Amélie deeper and deeper into her own fascination.

Certainly, Angela had all the same qualities that had first drawn Amélie to Gérard—the wit, the charm, the conversation—but, oh, it was so much more different with her. Intelligent beyond measure. More kindhearted than she had any right to be. Beautiful.  _ Beautiful. _ And altogether unafraid. Gérard made her feel human, but Angela didn't bother making such efforts. Neither knew of her wolfsblood, of course, but they could both feel the subtle aura of danger she carried behind her too-long canines. But where Gérard was intrigued with the presence, Angela scarcely seemed to notice it.

And Amélie was altogether unaccustomed to human fearlessness.

The knowledge made her feel strange. Furious. Excited? Like she wanted to lunge across the little wrought-iron table at their favorite cafe and kiss the breath out of her. Like she wanted to close her fangs around that pretty unmarked throat till she tasted blood. Like she wanted to eat her alive. Like she wanted to see her in ecstasy. Like she wanted to give Angela reason to fear her.

Like she wanted to ravage her.

Like she wanted to ravish her.

"Are you alright?"

Amélie blinked hard.

Angela simply gave her that wry little smirk of hers—the one that tugged up the right corner of her mouth first, then the left—and she lifted the plain porcelain café mug to her lips. "You seem... distracted." Amélie narrowed her eyes just a hair at her tone. She could never tell whether or not Angela was flirting with her.

Not that Angela  _ should've _ been flirting with her. Given the circumstances and all.

"I suppose I may be," she admitted with a little half-shrug. She took a sip from her own mug to stall—a dark earl grey to Angela's far-too-sugared coffee—but the way Angela's brow quirked in curiosity made her set the cup back down. "Gérard and I had a bit of an argument this morning. Nothing major, but..."

Angela nodded in understanding. She always understood, it seemed. "It's never easy, I know." She laid her hand over Amélie's on the table, and Amélie's blood thrummed at the unnatural warmth of Angela's skin against her own. Angela evidently took her low exhale as a disheartened noise, as she tried to change the subject then: "How is your studio, then?"

Amélie's mouth turned up in a genuine smile. It was sweet, how Angela tried to spare her feelings. Not that she needed it. "Absolutely perfect, now that I've finished polishing the floorboards with a toothbrush." Angela's laugh had always been beyond charming: the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way she always tried to stifle it behind a pale, steady hand. Amélie could listen to that sound for hours.

"I  _ knew _ it." Angela tried to sound accusatory, but her soft giggles slipped through nonetheless.

Amélie idly rolled her shoulders back and picked up her mug again. "I fear that the studio has become something of a point of contention between Gérard and I, however." Angela's brows jumped up in a silent  _ oh? _ "Mm. He seems to be taking some exception to my spending my weekly vigil at the studio suddenly."

Angela snorted softly, forehead creasing in disbelief. "You've been doing this since before the pair of you met," she pointed out, shaking her head. "Did he think you'd suddenly up and start doing things differently after your marriage?"

"Ah," Amélie purred, smirking at Angela with all the rapacious look of a predator. " _ Non, _ rather he seems to think I might be lying about my activities in the time period."

Now Angela was incredulous. "Where  _ else _ would you be?"

"Hm, I feel it may be less where else I may be, but rather  _ who else _ I may  _ be with. _ " The intent behind her words left little in the way of misinterpretation. Angela coughed sharply. Amélie could see the beginnings of a blush creeping up that pale throat, and again she longed to have her fangs pressed up against that soft, vulnerable flesh.  _ Be afraid, damn you, _ half of her demanded.

"He thinks  _ you're _ cheating?" Angela recovered nicely, though there was no hiding the sense of trepidation that rolled off of her in waves. " _ Him? _ The man gone more often than not on missions he's not authorized to tell you about?"

Amélie blinked hard.  _...well then. _ This was a turnaround she hadn't expected. And she wasn't sure she liked it. In fact, the thought made her stomach twist in a particularly unpleasant manner. "Gérard wouldn't cheat on me."

The ice in her tone didn't go unnoticed. Angela didn't even blink, simply meeting cold golden eyes with that soft, unflinching blue gaze. "I didn't say he was," she said amicably. She took a long sip from her coffee. Had it not been for the inhuman sense of hearing Amélie was blessed with, she would've missed Angela's low murmur of "He'd be a damn fool to throw you away like that" against the rim of the mug.

Amélie was startled enough that she  _ did _ nearly miss Angela's next comment: "I wasn't trying to  _ imply _ that he was, either. I just meant that between the two of you, his erratic disappearances would be far more incriminating than your regular weekly tasks which you've been doing for  _ years. _ "

Amélie didn't like that word,  _ incriminating. _ "...He loves me."

Angela grinned. It didn't quite meet her eyes. "Of course he does. The man's lovesick, in fact. I'm not saying anything to the contrary. I'm just saying perhaps he feels... guilty." Amélie's brows rose. "His job causes just as much time apart as yours does. He knows that. He's feeling guilty because he's probably heard plenty from the others in Blackwatch about how they've been neglecting  _ their _ partners for  _ their _ jobs." Angela rested her chin in a hand, tipping her head slightly. "People get  _ lonely, _ Amélie."

Amélie leaned back in her seat, eyes lidded, watching Angela sharply through her long lashes. She held her own mug in both hands, feeling the slight tingle of excess heat prickling her palms and fingers. The comment gave her pause. Like they, perhaps, weren't quite discussing the same thing. At length Amélie opened her eyes fully, gazing at Angela as she finished off the remainder of her coffee with a low, satisfied sigh.

"Do  _ you _ ever get lonely,  _ docteur? _ " she asked finally, voice neutral but for a thread of curiosity.

Angela blinked at the question. Her eyes creased in the corners again as she smiled genuinely and gestured at Amélie with her now-empty mug. "Why would I be? I have you and my research for that."


	4. Chapter 4

Despite Angela's insistence that she hadn't intended to make any accusations, the lunchtime discussion left Amélie somewhat... unsettled. Certainly, she went about her light aerobic workout and afternoon-to-evening rehearsal at the studio as usual, but she found her thoughts shifting warily back to her husband, over and over. The constant travel for missions. The sudden encroaching need to know her whereabouts. The paranoia about her own faithfulness.

She supposed it  _ did _ look quite suspicious to an outsider. But with her weekly "maintenance visits" to her studio, and her insistence on doing them alone, she supposed she did as well. Amélie, at least, had the benefit of  _ knowing. _

It was difficult to pull one over on your wife when her senses were more refined than any human could ever hope to have.

By the time she'd gotten back to the base for the evening, Amélie had nearly forgotten her unease entirely. So she slipped effortlessly back into her normal evening routine.

She placed her shoes neatly by the door. She emptied out her bag from rehearsal, put the contents in their respective hampers. She gave her little black cat a scratch under the chin. She grabbed a nice, near-scalding shower to help relax her tired muscles. She dressed in a pair of comfortable yoga pants and tank top. And then she went to prepare a quick, light dinner.

Golden eyes glanced at the clock. 6:29. She paused, then, finally breaking from her mechanical pace. Her gaze lingered on the time for a long moment, plate lingering over the sink.

6:31. The door opened. As usual. Like clockwork. Gérard's usually-comforting arms wrapped around her waist as he hugged her from behind and pressed a few sweet kisses to her neck and shoulder. As usual. Like clockwork. Amélie noted distantly that she didn't recall him being so punctual for anything before in his life. And a black ops job was more... permanently-on-call than a nine-to-five. Up till a few months ago he could've been home anywhere from two in the afternoon to three in the morning. Certainly, he still had his late nights here and there, but for the most part he just... arrived home at six-thirty.

As usual. Like clockwork.

Gérard nuzzled into the crook of her neck and shoulder, stubble scraping just slightly over her skin. "Lost in thought, chérie?"

Amélie leaned back against him, still watching the clock. "Somewhat, I suppose." He chuckled, a callused hand tipping her chin up so he could kiss her properly. Her eyes closed on instinct, pressing closer to him. His soft chuckle against her lips coupled with the scent of his usual body wash was nearly enough to soothe her again. Nearly. He started towards the living room. "Your day went well enough, then?"

"Uneventful," he said, grinning at her over his shoulder. "Which is good. The most exciting thing to happen was Gabe and me having some friendly competition at the shooting range."

"Ah, did you win?" she chuckled, finally moving to finish cleaning up.

"Of course. It was a sound beating. At least it was at the end of the day. I wouldn't be able to bear his insistence on a rematch all day long. It took long enough to get out of the range and back home without having to deal with that for any longer."

Amélie's grip on the plate tightened, hairline fractures shooting out from her fingers.  _ He's lying again. _ She knew what the range smelled like. Smoke and lead and sweat. Sharp. Acrid. There was no mistaking what the firing range smelled like. She could tell immediately when he came home directly from it, as the scent would always cling to his clothes like cigarette smoke for hours after. But Gérard had come home smelling much the same way as he'd left this morning. Plain. Clean. Like he was fresh out of a shower.

He didn't even have the smell of his office on him.

Golden eyes stared hard at the plate in her grasp. Her hand trembled just slightly. Barely noticeable. She told herself, firmly,  _ This could mean nothing, _ and at the same time recalled Angela's sad smile when she said,  _ People get  _ lonely _ , Amélie. _

She silently put the plate in the rack to dry. She wiped her hands with the soft hand towel on the nearby rack. She strode purposefully to the living room.

Gérard's breath left in a sharp  _ oof _ when Amélie dropped into his lap, straddling his thighs easily. His hands fell instinctively to her hips, lips parting to ask her what she was doing—groaning in low, surprised pleasure when hers silenced him in an instant, soft hands cradling his stubbled jaw. She tipped her head, lapped her way in.

These moments stirred up a carnal sort of longing in her chest. Most humans seemed so... fragile, she supposed. And even Gérard felt so, at times like these. Human as he made her feel, even  _ he _ couldn't hide the natural response to a monster's teeth at his throat, claws against his back—the racing heartbeat, the scent of adrenaline that lingered on his skin... She'd never given him reason to fear her, not on more than a base instinct level, but to know that he  _ did _ made her drunk on the power he gave her, whether he knew it or not.

All it would take was a little extra pressure against the pounding pulse point under her tongue, just enough for her too-sharp teeth to dig in below the surface... The temptation to  _ bite, _ to  _ mark _ him, to slick her tongue with flesh and blood was nearly overpowering, and it made her dizzy to pull away long enough to scrape her nails down his front, drawing a ragged breath from Gérard, his grip tightening on her waist.

Amélie's lips had just brushed up against the underside of his jaw—palm scarcely brushed against the front of his jeans—scent of an unfamiliar perfume barely registering to her senses—and Gérard was pulling her hands away, laughing low and breathless like she hadn't noticed a thing. Amélie bit down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste iron.

" _ Chérie, _ " Gérard growled into the hollow of her throat, tugging her in by her wrists, wrapping an arm around her middle as his other hand slid down her stomach, dipping below the waistband of her pants. Like she'd ever in her life allowed him to take charge in their intimate moments.

She let him now, too distracted trying to place that barely-there scent to mind the role reversal as he murmured meaningless nothings into her ink-black hair. It wasn't as though he would ever notice if she were faking, anyway. It wasn't as though he ever had.

" _ Chérie, _ " he murmured again, nipping at her like he'd never had the nerve to do.

That he was taking control at all was  _ new. _

That he said her name not even once as she pressed into him, rocking into his touch, was even more concerning. Pet names didn't cut it with her in these moments. They never did. He knew that.

_ People get  _ lonely, _ Amélie. _


	5. Chapter 5

Easy as it was to forget one's humanity when running wild, it was impossible to forget  _ everything _ about it. Through the fractures of her mind brought on by the confusion of the shift, she could easily recall certain... waypoints. It was why the act of trying to drag clothes onto a canid body reminded her of her humanity. It was why she was able to remember the location of the studio while half-feral.

It was why, when she trotted back to that selfsame building at the conclusion of her weekly turning, she froze at the realization that something was... off. She couldn't place exactly what, or when, but...

Someone was here who shouldn't have been.

Her hackles rose even as she dropped to her stomach, slinking low in the shadow. She crept close to the side of the building, trying to blend mottled black fur into shade rather than snow. The warmer morning had ensured the top layer of snow had melted before refreezing, and Amélie moved slowly as possible in effort to keep silent the noticeable  _ crunch _ of the slush under her paws.

Nostrils flared in a silent huff, her breath visibly rising from a curled lip, and she edged slowly, slowly to that window she knew was open for her benefit. She'd be safe. It was fine. If she could just get inside...

Heavy footsteps on concrete 'round the front of the building made her freeze in an instant, golden eyes pinned towards the corner of the building. There was a short, deafening knocking against wood, and a deep, masculine human voice called out something garbled and familiar. She slowly resumed her stalk forward, ears pinned back against her skull, a growl trying to rumble up out of her throat. She didn't recognize the words anymore, but they sounded... wistful?

She placed her front paws on the wall below the window, preparing to leap up.

"—Amélie—"

The strangely-familiar call finally clicked. Amélie's blood ran cold, paws flexing in surprise against the frigid brick, claws scraping harshly against it.

_ Gérard? _

"Amélie?" Those heavy booted footsteps were moving towards her  _ fast. _ She leapt—nearly missed, hind paws scrabbling on the brick before catching—and she hadn't even disappeared fully inside before there was a sharp shout behind her.

She'd been spotted.

Amélie hit the ground hard and stumbled—hastily shoved back to her paws and darted across the floor, low to the ground, pulse pounding in her too-sensitive too-hot ears. She needed to find her cache. She'd left it here somewhere, she knew that.

Glass shattered somewhere behind her, towards the front of the studio; her ears flattened against her skull, a warning growl rumbling in her chest.  _ Stay back stay back stay back _

The man was too loud for his own good, and he nearly threw her off her search. This was  _ her _ territory, it held her scent marks all over it, and he stank of sweat and panic and something floral and he needed to  _ go _ or she would  _ make him go _ but she couldn't like this, could she? Focus. Focus. Cache. Back here somewhere. Always was.

The pile of clothes was far too neatly folded for her to get at easily, and glistening fangs tore the fabric as she struggled to get it onto her lupine body.  _ Remember. Remember, dammit. _ The clothes had always been a catalyst, something to trigger the memory of what it was to be human, but the acrid taste of panic dripping from her teeth was a distraction.

As was the sound of boots crunching over shattered glass and a man's voice shouting in fear for her.

Finally she got her head into the clothing, and the ingrained memories of getting dressed were enough for her to latch onto, dragging herself back into humanity, fur receding back into pallid skin, bones reworking themselves into a human shape, and Amélie privately thanked whatever god or higher power was keeping an eye on her as she scrabbled for the rest of her clothes before Gérard—

She froze at the blinding brightness of a tactical flashlight in her face, throwing her left hand up immediately to shield her too-sensitive eyes from it. A small bundle of roses hit the floor. Red and white.  _ Asking forgiveness, _ Amélie recognized distantly, still grimacing and squinting from the painfully bright light. And here she was on the floor, dark hair wild, wedding rings missing, scarcely dressed, struggling to yank up her jeans, shirt torn down from the collar to expose her chest...  _ Shit, _ Amélie concluded, eyes finally adjusting enough to see the look of betrayal and barely-restrained outrage on his face.

For a long moment, they were both silent.

"You will be paying the charges to repair my storefront," Amélie finally said stiffly, moving to tug her jeans up entirely. "As well as the cleaning charges garnered from shattering a double-paned window all over my studio floor."

"Your window," Gérard repeated numbly. Incredulity colored his face, a furious flush creeping up his muscled neck. "Your  _ window. _ " He threw out his free hand in bewildered exasperation. "I try to make things up to you by surprising you, and—and find some huge goddamn animal slipping into your studio, and I'm scared to death about what it's going to do to you, only to find that you've been fucking— _ fucking _ some  _ guy _ behind my back this whole fucking time, and you're worried about the  _ goddamn window? _ " His words rose to a shout at the end. Amélie met the furious blaze in his eyes with an icy stare as she stood, adjusting her clothes as best she could.

"I have been  _ nothing _ but faithful to you—"

He jabbed a finger towards her torn, rumpled clothing. "You call  _ this _ faithful?" Gérard's jaw trembled. "How long, Amélie?"

She scooped up her duffel bag, avoiding his gaze. "How long  _ what, _ Gérard?"

"How long have you been  _ lying _ about this fucking studio just so you could come down here and fuck whoever you—who the fuck even  _ is _ he? Where the hell is he?" Gérard whipped around, flashlight beam flicking about the empty studio furiously. " _ Where the hell are you, you bastard? Come out here and be a man! _ "

Amélie wrenched Gérard back around by the shoulder, golden eyes flashing furiously. "Gérard, you are behaving like a  _ child, _ " she said sharply. "I haven't even entertained the  _ idea _ of an affair, not that I could say the same of you—"

"This isn't about me," he hissed back, "and you've got some  _ goddamn nerve _ making accusations when you're going without your wedding rings fresh out of a fuck—" Amélie's open-palmed slap against his cheek wasn't a hard one, but the crack of skin on skin in the silence of the studio was enough to shut him up.

"How  _ dare _ you," Amélie whispered, trembling in outrage. "You don't have a damn idea what you're talking about."

His anger seemed to deflate right before her eyes—shoulders slumping, fury bleeding out of exhausted hazel eyes. Gérard picked up the roses again, holding them limply at his side. A loose petal drifted down to the floor. "Explain it to me, then," Gérard half-begged. "Tell me it's not what it looks like. Please, just... I need the truth. Please. What's going on,  _ chérie? _ "

Amélie was struck silent for a long moment. For the first time in a long time, Gérard's question seemed to be genuine, and not just him lashing out at her. Even more bewildering, Amélie actually found herself wanting to tell him the truth. How much simpler would things be if he knew everything? No more fights, no more hiding, no more secrets... The man was Blackwatch, for chrissake, she knew he could keep her secret if she asked him to. Certainly, the knowledge of her wolfsblood might take him a little while to grow accustomed to, but in the end, the benefits would surely outweigh...?

"You wouldn't believe me," Amélie said, voice small. She scarcely realized she'd said anything at all until Gérard set the flowers and flashlight down to grasp her hands in his. The gesture always made her feel safe. She trembled now at his grip, feeling as though the slightest wind could fell her in an instant.

"If you promise it's the truth," he swore softly, thumbs caressing the backs of her knuckles, "I promise I will believe you. Amélie, please..."

Her throat felt bone-dry, and her lips trembled as they twitched up into a sad smile.  _ You won't believe me. _ "Very well. I promise, then, that I'm telling you the truth." He smiled weakly at her in turn, squeezing her hands fondly. Amélie inhaled deeply, steeling her trembling spine. " _ Je suis un loup-garou. Gérard. _ "


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't believe her.

She could see it in the flash of incredulity in his eyes.

She could smell it in the flare of heated anger that seeped from his pores.

She could feel it in the tightening grip he had on her hands.

Yet he remained silent, for a long, long moment. The look he fixed her with was one of thinly-veiled disbelief, scrutinizing her for any traces of her untruth with the same intensity he exuded in interrogations. A lesser man, a lesser human, might've collapsed under his scrutiny. Amélie was neither; she had steel in her spine and blood on her tongue. She met his gaze and held it, molten gold unflinching against hardened steel blue.

He backed down.

"A werewolf," he echoed. He laughed, a little incredulous, a little giddy. "Wow. That's..." His hands loosed hers, letting hers drift back down to her sides. "Wow," he said again.

"You said you'd believe me if I told you the truth," Amélie said, unable to keep the defensive tone from edging on her words. "That is the  _ truth, _ Gérard." And it was more than he had returned or deserved. He hadn't even bothered scrubbing the distant stink of perfume off his shirt this time.

"I know what I said, but—a  _ werewolf? _ " He raked his fingers back through his hair. "That's just... What, were you bitten as a child? How long has this..." One hand dragged down his face, thumb brushing his mustache back into place.

Amélie wrinkled her nose but gave him a tight-lipped smile. "That would be superstition,  _ mon loup, _ " she said dryly. Gérard flinched subtly as the irony of the pet name suddenly struck him. "Else you'd have turned just after our honeymoon,  _ non? _ " The jibe was enough to put some color in his cheeks.

"Then...?"

"Simply born," Amélie said with a half-shrug. "As anyone is. But much as you find yourself unable to resist the call of Overwatch—" he had the decency to look guilty at her pointed look "—garou are unable to resist the call of their blood. Not for very long, anyway."

"And... this...?" He gestured weakly at her rumpled, torn clothing.

Amélie smiled wryly, buttoning up her blouse with practiced speed. "It is very difficult to recall how to take on a human shape when dealing with a wolf's thoughts," she said smoothly, dusting herself off. "The clothing is... a catalyst of sorts. It is mine, so it makes me remember. Without it..." She trailed off, golden eyes distant for a moment as she considered. "...I am unsure whether I could change back." Many garou, when faced with the same situation, simply vanished into the wild, and were never seen again.

Amélie had already assured herself that she would do no such thing. She had too much here to stay for to even consider disappearing like that. Gérard, here, staring at her with a reverent sort of bewilderment. The ballet studio she'd worked herself to the bone to found.

...

Angela, her very closest friend and companion.

God, she couldn't even begin to imagine what Angela would think. Her husband already seemed to think that she was a liar, but for Angela to presume the same... she didn't like the feeling that settled in her gut even thinking about it. Angela might even think her mad—and even if Amélie were to prove it...

She wasn't sure she'd be able to bear Angela being afraid of her.

"You cannot tell anyone," Amélie said suddenly, making Gérard start. "About any of this." She whirled around, grasped his forearms in both hands—felt him flinch at her touch, his eyes darting for an escape. "Not a soul," Amélie pressed, a rare thread of desperation to her words. "Promise me."

His eyes focused in on a spot above her ear instead of meeting her gaze genuinely, and he shook his head in something approaching incredulity. "I promise,  _ mon coeur, _ " he said at length. Gérard smiled weakly, then. It didn't meet his eyes. "I feel quite certain that nobody would believe me, anyway."

Amélie kissed him softly, tasting spearmint and adrenaline on his mouth. He reciprocated easily, cupping her jaw, running his thumb over her cheek. The gesture usually made her feel safe—loved, even—but now, in this moment of rare vulnerability, it felt... empty. He pulled away just slightly to brush his lips over her forehead, then each of her closed eyelids in turn.

"Does Doctor Ziegler know?" Gérard asked at length, murmuring the question into her hair.

Amélie drew back, confusion etched in her gaze.  _ She's clearly not here—does he still believe...? _ "Why would Angela know?" she asked, guarded.

"You two just seemed so close, I thought you might've mentioned..."

Amélie grimaced. She didn't miss the way Gérard's gaze shot down to her barely-exposed teeth, searching them for a hint of fang. " _ Chéri, _ I did not even want to tell  _ you, _ " she reminded him. Her gaze softened. "There are... very few who would understand. It is a delicate situation. Outside of my family, you are the only one in the world who knows."

His brow furrowed. He blinked hard, a few times in quick succession. " _ Nobody _ else knows?"

"You are the only one I would trust with the knowledge,  _ mon loup. _ " It was not entirely the truth, but it was close enough to it.

A smile touched his lips, and he reached out fondly, brushing a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. She didn't return the expression. "I assure you, Amélie, I will take the knowledge to the grave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing............ is hard


	7. Chapter 7

In retrospect, Amélie perhaps shouldn't have offhandedly mentioned "I think Gérard is cheating on me" while Angela was mid-sip of coffee on their next not-date. Then again, in her defense, she didn't expect Angela to inhale so much of it so as to have her hacking for the next several minutes. Amélie simply gave her a good few thumps between the shoulders in an attempt to help before resigning herself to just rubbing her back as she continued coughing harshly into her napkin.

"Overreacting a touch, perhaps?" Amélie inquired dryly as Angela's coughs slowly subsided. Not that she minded the excuse to have a hand on Angela's unusually warm body, of course.

"My sincerest—" her sarcasm was interrupted with another spate of coughs "— _ sincerest _ apologies. I don't usually have my friends suddenly bringing up their spouses possibly having an  _ affair _ over coffee." Angela wiped at her mouth with the paper napkin and crumpled it up. "What makes you think so, anyway?" Her eyes narrowed a touch, though the effect was ruined by an aftershock of coughing. "You haven't just been dwelling on what I said earlier—"

Amélie dismissed the accusation with a flick of her fingers. "Hardly. I did think about it, obviously, but..." She paused to consider her next words carefully. "I didn't  _ linger _ on it. But it did make some of his behaviors make more sense." She smiled thinly, humorlessly. "Like the perfume on some of his shirts."

Angela shook her head and leaned back against her chair. "Wow." She picked up her paper cup of coffee again, warming her hands on it against the brisk autumn chill. Her gaze seemed distant for a moment as she mulled over the implications. She shook her head again, firmer. " _Wow,_ " she repeated, a thin layer of disgust to her voice.

"Is that all you can say?" Amélie asked with a wry little half-smile.

"What else  _ is _ there to say?" she countered. "You seem to be taking it rather well, I suppose. Given the circumstances."

"Mm." Amélie took a long sip of her tea to ponder her next words carefully. "I think I had my suspicions before and chose to ignore them." She shrugged a shoulder, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I'm not  _ happy _ or  _ accepting _ of it, mind. I just wasn't as surprised as I'd have liked to be on making the connection."

"Have you spoken with him about it?"

Amélie grimaced as she recalled the argument they'd had in her studio, making a vague gesture with one hand. "In a manner of speaking." She wasn't sure an accusation that was so pointedly rebuffed was really "speaking with" him about it.

Angela outright scowled at that. " _ Unbelievable. _ " Amélie found herself altogether charmed by the hardness in those so often too-kind eyes—the fiercely protective look that glinted like steel in their depths. It was rare to find so possessive a human who didn't also want her caged away with them. "I always thought Gérard a man of at least  _ minimal _ intelligence, but it seems I was  _ mistaken. _ "

Amélie's eyes glittered as she watched her anger seethe politely under the surface. She leaned forward a hair, half-certain she could  _ feel _ the muted heat of hatred burning beneath Angela's skin. "Oh?"

Angela gestured towards her. "It's hardly a secret that you're a very beautiful woman." The unabashed bluntness coupled with the scarcest dusting of pink in her cheeks made Amélie's lips quirk in a jagged grin. "Kind, intelligent, devoted, passionate... To throw that all away—?"

"You're too kind,  _ docteur. _ " She couldn't quite keep the gravely purr out of her voice. Amélie delighted in the deepening flush in Angela's face, spreading across her ears and down her fair throat. She wanted little more in that moment to feel the rabbit-fast pulse in Angela's neck under her lips—to silently assure her that the physical avarice was mutual—to leave her mark of teeth and blood on that unmarred flesh.

Gérard's suspicions were perhaps not entirely unfounded after all, but for the first time Amélie found herself fervently wishing that they'd been true.

" _ Schatz, _ your eyes are unsettling today," Angela's complaint broke through her reverie as she absently rubbed her hands over her arms, seemingly trying to smooth down the gooseflesh there. She grinned wryly at Amélie, still fearless through her vague discomfort. "Gold is such an unusual color for humans. When you stare so hard, you seem like you want to eat me alive."

Amélie couldn't help but grin, an expression that widened further when Angela's eyes flickered down to her lips—lingered on the slant of her fangs. "Is that so?" The way Angela's pupils dilated just slightly didn't escape notice.  _ This is a dangerous game to play. _ For both of them. Amélie half-relented first, laughing softly as she leaned back in her chair to give them both some distance. "Such a charmer you are. I can almost see why Gérard suspected you first."

Enraptured as she seemed to be, it took Angela two seconds too long for the implications to sink in. Her blush returned tenfold as she sat straight up, eyes wide and mortified. "He  _ what? _ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,word s


End file.
